


A Sign of Friendship

by Marwana



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:58:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5530184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marwana/pseuds/Marwana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship is far more than just having someone around to talk to. It also means that they will not let you down, or hide behind you if they cannot deal with something. It was a shame that he just realised that after the one person, besides John, he considers his friend is forced to meet with Mycroft. Merry Christmas!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sign of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the right to either original stories.

Sherlock glared around angrily as his hands curled around his glass of whisky, the one he had ordered when he had just seated himself at an empty table hidden in the corner of the pub some hours ago. He had yet to take even a single sip from the amber coloured beverage and he wasn’t planning on taking one soon.

  
It was a Friday evening and he had planned on using the empty kitchen to do some experiments he hadn’t been able to do when John had still lived with him. One that involved some human parts – preferably human brains if Molly had some – and the maggots of a European Botfly.  
He had a lot of experiments planned now that John had decided to live together with his girlfriend of so many months – he had mentioned both her name and the length of the period they had been together a couple of times but Sherlock had deemed both too unimportant to remember so he didn’t know either – and that one was just the first of many.  
  
He had been on his way towards Barts by foot as it was a particularly warm night for October, when he had been forced to a halt by the black car which had suddenly stopped right in front of him. Two men had stepped out of the car and had forced him into it. He could have gotten away easily, both before they had gotten out of the car and once they had had their hands on him. Before because there was an alleyway which led to an entire system of alleys in which he knew the exact way and they did not and after they had gotten their hands on him because of the fact that one had recently broken his wrist and the other seemed to have hurt his back. But he had loathed the idea of having yet another drug bust courtesy of Mycroft sicking DI Lestrade on him or a visit of his _darling_ brother himself if he didn’t cooperate. So he had let them _think_ he had been forced into the car.  
The car had taken of as soon as he had seated himself and he had been handed a phone.  
  
Mycroft,  because who else could have been on the other side of the line, had told him shortly that he would be taken to some pub – he had forgotten the name as soon as it had been mentioned – where he should socialize with normal human beings. He had told the annoying git that he had had plans for that evening which _involved_ socializing but said annoying git had just told him that he would be watching him before he had hung up the phone.  
  
So that was how he found himself completely bored in a dump of a pub several hours later. He had already deduced everything that was to deduce about the people inside the pub: the woman dressed in the low-cut red dress was cheating on her husband with the dark-haired man she had come in with, said dark-haired man only slept with her because of the valuable gifts she gave him as he needed the money.  
The man – a police agent – next to him hated alcoholic beverages but his colleague had convinced him to come and he was too weak-willed to tell him that he didn’t want to go, the colleague in question was an alcoholic with performance issues hence the reason why he was flirting with the pretty barmaid who had just broken up with her own boyfriend and who was still recovering from said nasty break-up.  
The couple in the corner had been together for a couple of weeks but the first problems had already shown themselves as the man wanted to go beyond heavy kissing and the woman was still too insecure about the relationship to let him. She was also pretty insecure about herself and she was about to lose the job she loved very much. He on the other hand was jobless but searching and he needed an outlet for the stress, hence the wish to have sex.  
  
He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass and stared at it in an attempt to deduce everything about it. He knew that it was almost impossible to deduce everything about the beverage without equipment as the distillation and the alcohol destroyed a lot of the indications that gave the original compounds away but he was bored enough to try it anyway.  
  
He was so engrossed in figuring out what exactly was used in the whiskey that he didn’t notice the man whom had approached him until he was asked in a soft voice – the accent indicated someone from Surrey and the person had an almost unnoticeable lisp – if he could join him.  
He looked up slowly and nodded. The young man – his skin was still tight and he had almost no wrinkles – sat down in chair opposite of him.  
  
Sherlock studied him and told him almost immediately what he had deduced, “you were raised by members of your family but probably not by your parents. Said members of your family neglected you. You have friends and family who worry about you but you prefer to spend your time alone, partially due to your abusive upbringing. One of the other reasons why you prefer to be alone is due to the fact you’ve had a falling out with your best friends recently because you refuse to date the one they want you to date. This falling out is also the reason why you work far more hours than you should and till late in the night. You wear red because it remembers you of better times, times you used to spend with your best friends. You write with a pen which should be dipped in ink and you use some kind of polished wooden stick often.”  
  
He could have told the young man more but what he had told him should be enough to chase the man away – something which he had been doing to every person who had dared to join his table.  
But the young man didn’t react as he would have expected. Instead of standing up and walking away – or a variety of that in which he either ended up drenched due to the young man’s drink or having the attention of the entire pub on him because of the fact that the man either burst out in tears or yelled at him – the young man just relaxed back into his chair.  
  
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he told him as he took a sip of his beverage.  
Sherlock perked up at the challenge and studied the young man closely, “you’ve been tortured by several different people who were in charge but no one ever stopped them. You’ve been in a war and you’ve been in multiple situations in which you could have died.”  
The young man raised his eyebrow in such a way that could be described as amused, “nothing new there.”  
  
Sherlock huffed and started to rattle of everything he could read from the man but the man just kept staring at him and sipping from his drink.  
  
“You have yet to tell me something I do not know,” he finally said after Sherlock had told him everything he could see and even something that he deduced from the things he could see – like how the man was part of a secret society, how he was an adrenaline junky but didn’t actively search for trouble, how he was famous, how he was both hated and worshipped by people, how he was the head of not one but two noble families but didn’t care about the wealth he had, how he was a member of the police force and how he was in a very high position for his age.  
  
Sherlock looked at the young man, truly looked at the young man. Not to deduce but to figure out _why_ this person was so different from the others. He looked normal enough. He was small and lithe due to his upbringing but he was healthy and lightly muscled thank to some kind of sport and due to his job. He had shaggy, wild dark hair and his face was a bit too sharp – once again because of his upbringing – to be considered handsome. He had some distinctive scars but he didn’t seem to care. He was wearing a bright red jumper which was decorated with a golden, roaring Dutch Lion and a pair of dark jeans and he wore glasses.  
But the most distant and remarkable part of the man’s body were his eyes. They were a bright, almost glowing emerald green and they appeared to have seen too much for his age, which couldn’t be more than twenty-eight years old.  
But there was something… _odd_ about him, something Sherlock couldn’t lay his finger on and it intrigued him.  
  
“Sherlock,” Sherlock finally said as he took his first sip if his whiskey.  
“Hm?” the young man hummed confused as he raised his eyebrow at him in a questioning gesture.  
“My name, it’s Sherlock,” Sherlock replied impatiently.  
“Harry,” the young man – no _Harry_ – replied, “nice to meet you I guess.”  
  
They spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence as they both sipped from their drinks.  
  
They both left at the same time but before they split up Sherlock insisted that they exchanged numbers. He was not about to let one of the few persons that intrigued him get away like that.  
  
**oOo  
**  
Sherlock called Harry a couple of days after they had met. He had wanted to call him the very next day but Mycroft had decided to pay him a customary visit so he could gloat about the fact that he had helped him meet someone interesting and he had ended up spending hours playing on his violin to calm down afterwards.  
On Sunday he had been dragged – once again by his aggravating brother – to have lunch with Mummy during which his brother decided to inform their mother about the fact that he had managed to get Sherlock to socialize with someone.  
  
So he called him on Monday morning.  
The phone rung three times before someone picked it up.  
“YES!” someone – the timbre and pitch of the voice meant it was a male – shouted loudly and Sherlock winced harshly at the too loud sound.  
“I would like to speak to Harry Potter, please,” he stated politely.  
“HARRY IT’S FOR YOU!” the same person shouted without removing the phone away from his mouth and Sherlock was forced to remove the phone away from his ear. He placed it on speaker in an attempt to save his poor ear if the person on the other side of the line might feel the need to shout something else. He might still need that ear for experiments.  
  
He heard people speaking – one of which was the one person he actually _wanted_ to speak to – before he heard the sound of the mobile phone being exchanged.  
“Harry here,” he finally heard.  
“I would like to meet up with you again on Friday evening, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock said stiffly, not quite sure how he should invite someone to spend time with him.  
“Sure, same pub like last time?” Harry said after a couple of seconds.  
“Where else,” Sherlock drawled before he hung up the phone.  
  
**oOo  
**  
They met up that Friday and the Friday after that, and the Friday after that one until they had known each other for almost six months.  
In those six months Harry had told him a lot about himself as Sherlock had asked him a lot of questions. Harry hadn’t answered everything – Sherlock still didn’t know what kind of secret society the young man was part of or where he got most of his scars – but he knew a lot about his friends like the fact that his two best friends were Hermione and Ron and that they had fallen out because of the fact that Harry didn’t want to date Ron’s younger sister because she wanted him to be something he wasn’t.  
  
He also knew Harry’s hobbies, the fact that he was knighted by and actually _knew_ the Queen, that he was part of the Special Forces, that he loved to fly, that his favourite animal were dogs, that he had a godson named Teddy and that he disliked nobility.  
  
Sherlock had told him something about himself – about the fact that he was a consulting detective and that his only friend was John – but that was all he was willing to tell and Harry didn’t ask him beyond what he wanted to tell.  
  
It was after they had known each other for over six months and after Sherlock was sure that Harry wouldn’t turn his back on him that he started to open up. He told him first about the fact that he had a brother who worked as the British Government – Harry had laughed when he had told him that Mycroft _was_ the British Government, not because he didn’t believe him but because he actually found it amusing – and that his mother was a noble Lady.  
  
Harry was a great listener and it didn’t take long before he had told him about his work as consultant detective, about his adventures – if one could call them that – with John, about his many experiments and about the fact that he loved the excitement of a difficult murder case.  
  
He had been afraid that Harry would be disgusted with him or call him a freak – because no matter what he showed Donavan it _did_ hurt to be called that. But Harry just looked at him with something that could be called fond amusement before he asked him if he had ever heard of the case of the Riddles in Little Hangleton.  
  
Sherlock lit up after that and every time Lestrade came to him with a new case he would tell Harry about it as soon as he had figured it out, sometimes he even told him about it before he had even told Lestrade.  
  
By the time they had known each other a little longer than a year it was normal for them to call the other when they wanted to talk. They also still met each other every Friday but it tended to happen that one of them would call the other to have lunch or even dinner by some kind of café or restaurant.  
They had grown close without Sherlock even knowing – or caring – how it had happened.  
  
He had noticed of course that Mycroft looked smug every time someone mentioned the name ‘Harry’ but Sherlock just saw it as Mycroft being his normal smarmy self and ignored it.  
  
**oOo  
**  
Sherlock invited Harry with him on a case when they saw each other in November, a year and almost a month after they had first met.  
Harry had a couple of free days and nothing important to do so he accepted.  
  
“Lestrade told me that there were no visible marks of how she was killed,” Sherlock told him enthusiastically as they neared the crime scene tape. He was about to say something else but he was – much to his annoyance – stopped by Donavan.  
“What are you doing here, Freak?” she asked him bitingly before she turned towards Harry, “found a new dog, have you?”  
“Lestrade called me,” Sherlock said stiffly, “as you know.”  
He lifted the tape and gestured for Harry to cross the border but he was stopped by Donavan.  
“What’s his business here anyway?” she asked crossly, “it’s already bad enough that we have to put up with you but I’m sick of letting your little friends in.”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her just _why_ he was needed but he was interrupted before he could even start.  
“Is Sherlock he-,” Lestrade’s voice sounded as he walked out of the house only to stop as he noticed Sherlock standing there.  
He blinked as he noticed the scene.  
“Why are you there? Donavan, let him through!” he said aggravated and Sherlock quickly slipped underneath the tape.  
“Coming, Harry?” Sherlock asked impatiently.  
  
“Who is this?” Lestrade asked curiously as he finally noticed Harry, who was _still_ standing behind the tape.  
“This is Harry,” Sherlock said defensively, “he is a friend.”  
“You have friends?” someone behind them gasped and Sherlock turned around until he was face to face with Anderson.  
“Who would want to be friends with a freak like you?” Donavan asked incredulous.  
  
“Why shouldn’t he have friends?” Harry asked and Sherlock noted that his lisp seemed to have intensified in such a way that all his s-sounds were exaggerated. He sounded a lot like he would have expected a snake to sound if a snake could talk. It wasn’t something Sherlock had heard before and he was curious why Harry seemed to start to lisp when he was angry, normally people started to lisp when they were nervous.  
  
“He is a psychopath,” Anderson told Harry nasally, “and he enjoys the death of others!”  
“I’m a-” Sherlock started but Harry interrupted him.  
“He is no psychopath,” Harry deadpanned, though his lisp had yet to leave, “and you are a forensic pathologist. Don’t they _cut_ into the body of dead people?”  
“That’s different,” Anderson sputtered.  
“That’s enough,” Lestrade interrupted the discussion, “I’m sorry Sherlock but you know I’m not allowed to have strangers near the crime scene. Not after _that_.”  
_That_ was of course his ‘fall’.  
  
Sherlock was once again about to say something but Harry stopped him with a raised hand. His other hand disappeared inside his pocket and he took a badge out and showed it to Lestrade. Sherlock noticed the strange symbol on the front – a large M split in two by a line, around the M was a text but he was too far away to see what it said.  
  
Lestrade took it from him and opened it, only to gasp in shock. He raised his head and stared at the young man in front of him.  
“May I enter the crime scene?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow – his lisp had disappeared – and Lestrade nodded. Sherlock pulled the tape up and Harry crossed the border, took back his badge from Lestrade and followed after Sherlock as he went into the house.  
  
“Why did you bring it?” Sherlock asked curiously.  
“Because I had the feeling that someone would raise a stink,” Harry deadpanned a he placed the badge back into his pocket, “and I promised I would accompany you, didn’t I?”  
Sherlock shot him a smile and together they entered the house.  
  
**oOo**  
  
It was a month later, just around Christmas time to be exact, that Harry met Mycroft.  
Sherlock had invited Harry to have dinner at 221B Bakerstreet to celebrate Christmas and Harry – who of course had known that he would end up doing all the cooking – had accepted.  
  
They had been still been laughing softly at Sherlock’s attempt to imitate Anderson when voices coming from downstairs had abruptly ended Sherlock’s laugh and had turned his mood sour.  
“Sherlock?” Harry asked him, his tone a mix of concern and curiosity.  
He was tempted to snap a sharp reaction right back at his associate – more like best friend – but the sound of footsteps – one pair of expensive loafers and one slightly less expansive pair of heels – on the stairs made him stand him up, whirl around and stalk towards the window.  
  
He didn’t _want_ Harry to meet Mycroft and sycophant. Not because of the fact that he thought Mycroft would hurt Harry but because he was afraid that Harry would _leave_ him. Mycroft had the uncanny ability to chase away people. Normally this didn’t bother him too much, as most people didn’t mean anything to him. But he cared for Harry and he valued his opinion and he didn’t want him to leave, he didn’t _want_ to be lonely again.  
  
“Sherlock?” Harry repeated almost confused as he too stood and walked towards him just as a sharp knock sounded and the door was opened to show the person he had expected and didn’t _want_ to see.  
“Hello Sherlock,” Mycroft stated smoothly as he entered the room. Sherlock didn’t turn around be he _knew_ that those sharp, emotionless eyes were fixed on his friend, “and you must be Harry.”  
The sound of shoes moved towards where he knew Harry was.  
  
“I am Mycroft, his brother,” he introduced himself almost pleasantly; “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”  
The infliction in his voice stated something else entirely and Sherlock – almost insulted on behalf of his friend – whirled back around to retort something quite rude about Mycroft’s diet or his occupation but Harry was faster.  
  
“I’m sure,” he drawled in a way Sherlock hadn’t heard before and much to his surprise the warm, green eyes that always showed his emotions were just as icy and distant as Mycroft’s eyes. He also managed to look down upon Mycroft, which was quite a feat as his brother was quite a bit taller.  
  
“Why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked exasperated.  
“I’m just here to meet your new _pet_ ,” Mycroft stated as he swung around his ever present umbrella.  
Sherlock bristled and glared at his older brother but a hand on his arm kept him silent. Mycroft raised a mocking eyebrow.  
“Or is it the other way around?” he stated sardonically, “has someone finally managed to tame the great Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Maybe _someone_ doesn’t need the great Sherlock Holmes to defend him from the likes of you,” Harry stated coolly, and he would have been offended by the use of words describing him but the soft squeeze of the hand on his arm removed any and all insecurity about where Harry stood regarding him. The hand released his arm and he felt more than that he saw it how Harry leaned back against the wall next to the window. He turned towards him and noticed the both nonchalant and confident posture he had never seen on his friend before.

“You are hardly a threat to either me or Sherlock,” he stated firmly, his tone as confident as his posture, “and your words mean little. Whatever power you believe you have is limited here.”  
Sherlock felt gleeful at the badly disguised look of shock on his brother’s face. No one had ever said something like that to him, they were always too intimidated by his presence and most of the time they let Sherlock do the talking. It always ended with the person who came between the two of them leaving due to the fact that Mycroft managed to get underneath his skin which always turned him back into the insecure person he had been before.

Harry was the first one to not only defend himself but also Sherlock against his brother.  
“Why are you here?” Sherlock repeated, though more calmly then before.  
“Mummy wants to see you,” he stated sharply. He recognized it as the excuse it was.  
Mycroft almost always used that excuse when he wanted to talk to him alone.

“I highly doubt that,” he drawled back in his best you-are-boring-me-with-your-dullness tone of voice, “as I spoke to her just yesterday.”  
For the second time that day he gleefully studied the badly disguised look on Mycroft’s face. And he wasn’t even lying this time around. Harry had somehow managed to convince him to talk to his mother and while the conversation had been rather awkward and consisted of more stilted pauses than an actual conversation, they _had_ talked and he _had_ promised to call her again in a month. Harry had been proud of him without treating him like a foolish child.

“It might be best if you left,” Harry said softly from where he was leaning against the wall, “as you are unwilling to state why you are here. If I thought it might work, I would even go so far to call the police. But sadly enough, your type always has some fingers in pies and are rarely afraid to use said influence for anything but to bother others. And while it wouldn’t take me long to be released from a holding cell, it would be such a bother for both of us.”  
Mycroft actually left after that, though it wouldn’t surprise him in the least if Harry found himself kidnapped by a black car sometime soon.

But in the meantime, he could enjoy the company of a person he was not afraid to call his friend. A person who had defended him against his own brother, a brother he had always had to fight on his own.

And for just that night it didn’t matter that Mycroft could still push Harry away or that it would hurt him if Harry were to leave him. Just for tonight, just for this _Christmas_ , he could spend some time with a person who actually accepted him as he was without wanting to change him.


End file.
